“Dearer than your own life,” said the squire, solemnly. “I do not know how she is. I expected to carry her home more dead than alive; but she has not broken down or given way. Bessie, who has been like a sister and as good as gold, says that my girl will not give way; that--that--I can scarcely speak of him”--and he shuddered--“that the sense of freedom, absolute freedom from that man, will sustain Olivia even through so terrible an ordeal as that through which she has passed; the sense of freedom and--and”--he pressed Clydesfold’s hand--“the knowledge that you are safe.” Clydesfold turned his head to hide the expression of joy which lit up his face. “I have come to you not only to try and thank you, but to ask you what I am to do. When Bessie left the court at an intimation--a mere word and look--from Olivia, the girl went to the Grange and got a letter of Bradstone’s which he had given to Olivia on her wedding day.” He shuddered again. “This letter contained the voucher for a large sum of money he had given her, the price”--he went on bitterly--“of her hand; the money to save me from the ruin which hung over me, and which will now crush me. I care nothing for that. But I do care most earnestly and deeply that you should know I was ignorant of this--this barter.” “I need no such assurance, sir,” said Lord Clydesfold, laying his hand on the old man’s shoulder tenderly. “Thank you, thank you!” faltered the squire. “Will you take it and restore it? You see, I still come to you in my trouble.” “Will you always do so? Let me see it.” He opened the paper, and looked at it; then went to his desk and compared it with some letters and papers. “It is a large sum. There may be near relations to inherit the unhappy wretch’s ill-got gold----” “No man will be the richer for this,” said Clydesfold, solemnly. “It is useless. It is--a forgery.” The squire started and looked at him with horror. “A forgery!” repeated Lord Clydesfold. “I know the manager’s writing quite well. See--there are his signatures to these papers. Compare them with this one on the voucher. It is a forgery.” He took it from the squire’s trembling hand and tore it in pieces, which he threw on the fire. “Do not tell her this,” he said, after a moment’s reflection. “It is better that she should not know it. From this moment do not permit her to mention his name in anything connected with her”--he paused; he was going to say “marriage”--“with anything connected with him. Let the past die out--as it will, please God!” He pointed to the ashes of the paper as they fluttered on the hearth. “Let that be the last remembrance of Bartley Bradstone!” CHAPTER XXXVII. CONCLUSION. He could not approach her. Though he longed to see her, to hear her voice, to touch her hand, ah! and to hold her in his arms as he had done for that one short moment in the woods, he felt that for the present it would be well for him to keep away from her.